Secret Lucidity

by E. K. Blair

  I look at my mother and seek her approval. “How do I look?”

  She brushes her hands over my hair to ensure every strand is in its place before smiling at me. “Absolutely stunning.” She then helps me put on my white gown before adding a simple strand of pearls around my neck.

  Tonight is the Father-Daughter Winter Ball, which will be my first cotillion dance, and I want to look perfect. I’ve been preparing for this night for the past two months, attending various junior cotillion etiquette and dance classes. I wasn’t exactly thrilled when my mom said she had enrolled me, but when I found out about the dances, I couldn’t hide my excitement. What twelve-year-old girl doesn’t want to get dolled up in a fancy dress?

  “Wait right here,” she says. “I’m going to go get your father.”

  “Okay.”

  I sit at my mother’s vanity in her bedroom and smile at the great job she did with my hair and makeup. My face practically glows, and my long brown hair is perfectly pinned back into a French bun. I can’t wait for all my friends to see me tonight.

  “Camellia,” my mother’s voice calls from downstairs, and I cringe slightly. She’s the only one who calls me that; my father and everyone else calls me Cam. Camellia sounds way too elegant for a girl like me; although, for tonight, it seems fitting.

  I once asked her where she came up with the name, and she explained the relationship Coco Chanel had with the camellia flower. She said the white bloom lacks in scent, and that it’s a reflection of what every woman should strive to be, which is demure and understated, and to her, that is the epitome of class. My mother has always preferred high-end labels and an elevated social standing, even though we live a modest upper-middle class lifestyle. I mean, I’m only edging on turning thirteen and I’m well aware of what the term “Keeping up with the Joneses” is all about. And even though we’re no Joneses, that doesn’t stop my mother from trying to look and act the part.

  I gaze down at my dad from the top of the stairs, and he has the biggest smile on his face. Dressed in a crisp black tuxedo, he’s more handsome than ever.

  “My sweetheart,” he marvels as I walk down the stairs.

  Mom takes an obscene amount of pictures as Dad hugs me and slips a simple white gardenia corsage around my wrist.

  “Turn and look at me.”

  Flashes from the camera are blinding, and after a few more poses, I kiss her on the cheek as she beams proudly.

  “You two have a wonderful time,” she says as we walk out the front door.

  I turn to wave goodbye before getting into the car.

  “Don’t tell your mother this, but you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re just saying that, Dad.”

  “It’s the truth.” He smiles as he starts the car and pulls down the driveway. “After tonight, I’m buying a baseball bat.”

  “For what?”

  “For any boy who tries to get your attention.”

  Laughter fills the car. “Oh my God, Dad! You’re crazy. I’m only twelve.”

  “Which means you’re almost thirteen. Which means it’s time to lock you in the basement until you’re thirty.”

  “We don’t even have a basement.”

  He turns to look at me with a charming glint in his eyes, adding, “The attic will have to do then.”

  Ink surrounds with no forgiveness. No hint of light or shadow. Aside from a beeping machine that drowns in the distance, everything is silent. I attempt to open my eyes, but my body won’t give.

  I feel a slight sensation of something on my face, but willing my hands to move is nothing more than failed effort.

  Where am I?

  Is anyone here?

  My thoughts slowly fade into dank muteness.

  “Turn, turn, turn.”

  “I’m trying!” Leaning forward, I dart my eyes to find the markers my dad set up as I try to navigate around the vacant parking lot. I slam on the brakes harder than I intend, jolting both of us forward. “Where are the cones?”

  “They’re under the car.” My dad is laughing so hard I can barely make out his words.

  “Are you serious?” I groan. “I’m never going to get the hang of this. I’m going to be the only loser at school without a driver’s license.”

  “What do you need a license for when you have me to drive you to school every day?”

  I give my dad a side stare, and he lifts his hands in surrender.

  “Okay, okay. I get it. I can’t expect you to be my baby girl forever.”

  “If my lack of driving capabilities weren’t enough of a hint, I think it’s safe to say I’m going to be your baby girl for the rest of my life.”

  He shoots me a wink before opening his door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “There are about five orange cones wedged underneath the car I’ve got to pull out.”

  “How is she?”

  I struggle to connect the voice that’s a faraway dream.

  Who’s here?

  “She’s stable,” a woman responds as I struggle to come to. “We’re not out of the woods; she’s in pretty bad shape. But right now, things are okay.”

  What is she talking about?

  Everything is so hazy.

  Wake up, Cam.

  The man’s voice lassos my attention again when he asks, “And her injuries?”

  “She’s suffered a nondisplaced skull fracture with several lacerations, which we’ve closed up with sutures.”

  What the hell happened?

  My heart pounds deep within, echoing pump after pump in my ears.

  Think, Cam. What happened?

  “She has an AC separation to her right shoulder,” the woman, who I assume is a doctor or nurse, continues as chills of panic shock my system into alertness.

  Wake up. Wake up.

  The static voices yield to clarity as they continue to talk. My senses slowly come back to life, working together to allow my eyes to open, but it doesn’t last more than a second before everything turns into a mist of vapor, and I feel myself sinking back into the abyss.

  “Where are my training wheels?”

  “You’re in kindergarten, sweetheart. It’s time you learn to ride this thing on two wheels,” Daddy says as he stands by my glittery pink bicycle.

  “I’m scared. What if I fall?”

  “Then I’ll catch you,” he assures. “Stop worrying and strap on your helmet.”

  The bike wobbles from side to side as he holds on to the back of my seat so I can climb on.

  “Don’t let go,” I call over my shoulder as we start down the empty street.

  “Just keep pedaling.”

  With my grip tight around the handle bars, the bike steadies, balancing beneath me, and I smile as the silver streamers fly in the wind.

  “Don’t let go, Daddy,” I holler again as I pick up a little more speed.

  “You’re doing it!” his voice echoes from far behind.

  He let go.

  My body jerks. A surge of unrelenting pain jolts through my system, and when my eyes snap open, blinding light greets me. I react with a gasp, but nothing happens except painful gagging.

  Oh my God! I can’t breathe!

  My hand flies to my mouth, and I startle when I feel a plastic tube.

  What’s happening? Someone help me!

  Voices flood the room, and I freak out. My body thrashes out of my control, excruciating agony slices through my bones as my pulse spikes in utter fear. I grab at the tube shoved down my throat, but someone captures my wrist, pinning it down to the bed while my other arm is strapped against my chest.

  “It’s okay,” a woman says, and then I feel another set of hands on my ankles, pressing me down and robbing my body of movement. “I need you to look at me, Camellia. Can you look at me?”

  Every one of my muscles shudders violently in terror and confusion as I wince against the stabbing pain in my neck and shoulder.

  “Everything is okay.” Her tone is soothi
ng as she tries to coax me from my panic. “You’ve been in an accident. You’re in the hospital, but you’re okay.”

  An accident?

  My mind scrambles to find truth in her words, but my wildly racing heart won’t let me think straight.

  “Can you hear me?”

  I finally force my attention to where she leans over me. She’s blue-eyed and blonde, and I notice a small golden angel pinned to her scrubs. I nod as I zero in on the pin.

  The pounding in my chest soothes as I remain on my focal point.

  She lets go of my wrist and continues talking to me, informing, “You have a tube down your throat that’s breathing for you. Let it do the work, okay?”

  Another nod.

  I notice her angel pin has a tiny chip in the gold on one of the wings, exposing the smallest vein of gray beneath.

  “Camellia?”

  “Is she okay?”

  I turn my head and find a guy standing across the small room. It takes a minute for me to process that it’s Coach Andrews.

  What’s he doing here?

  “Camellia, can you look at me?” I shift my attention back to the nurse. “I’m going to take the tube out. It’s going to feel a little funny when I remove it, but it’ll be quick.”

  She continues to talk to me, telling me what she is doing every step of the way. When the tube comes out, I gag against it, coughing and retching. My eyes water as I fight against the urge to throw up.

  “It’s out,” she says, as I take in a few deep breaths to quell the nausea.

  I wipe a spot of spit from my chin, and when I look over to Coach, my memory jogs.

  The portfolio.

  “I’m Nurse Hinton, and I work at Mercy Hospital,” the woman tells me when she returns to my bedside. “You were brought here by ambulance. Do you remember what happened?”

  I close my eyes and see prisms of colors before I blink them open again.

  “A truck hit us.”

  “Anything else?”

  I take a moment to let the hazy recollections piece together. Dad. My eyes widen. “My dad. Where’s my dad?”

  The nurse looks at Coach Andrews as he takes a step toward me and then stops. His eyes move to hers, and he looks . . . nervous.

  Watching the exchange between them makes my anxiety grow. “Where is he? And where’s my mom? Why is nobody here?”

  The nurse places her hand over mine and, with a gentle voice, tells me, “You were in a very bad accident.”

  “Where are my parents?”

  Coach moves over to my bedside. “Cam . . .”

  The way he says my name causes the world to slip from its axis, leaving me hanging in suspended time. In an instant, everything goes silent except for him.

  “Your dad didn’t make it.”

  His words strangle me, taking away my ability to breathe.

  What did he just say?

  I’m paralyzed, crippled mentally and physically, unable to react. My eyes lock to his, dissecting the truth from them. They’re bloodshot and puffy.

  He’s been crying.

  “Cam?”

  “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

  When the nurse closes the door behind her, Coach sits on the edge of the bed.

  “Say something.”

  “Where’s my dad?” My voice cracks, and when his face pains, I try to deny the meaning behind his reaction. “I don’t believe you,” I whisper as the horror of the truth splinters its way into my soul.

  He takes my hand, and I jerk it away. “No!”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Where is he?”

  He takes in a slow breath and, with agony-drenched words that will haunt me until my last breath, tells me, “He’s dead.”

  Two words rob me of everything. I want to scream and throw my fists through the walls, but my body is in too much pain. All I can do is wilt away in a drowning of tears that burn as they dig their claws into the flesh of my cheeks.

  Pink drips onto the white sheets, and when I touch my hand to my face, I feel nothing but bandages.

  “You got some pretty bad cuts from the glass.”

  I don’t give a shit about cuts.

  “I want my dad.” I beg through my growing sobs, as a tiny voice in my head tells me it’s impossible.

  He leans down and gently wraps his arms around me, and through my cries, I continue to plead for what I know will never come.

  “I want my dad!”

  COACH ANDREWS HELD ME WHILE I cried myself into a deep sleep, and when I woke this morning, he was gone. Nothing seemed real. It was as if I was wandering around in an alternate universe.

  That is, until, right now.

  My mother stands in my doorway, and I’m slammed back into the reality I’m not ready to endure.

  It’s been a solid day, and here she is, facing me for the first time since the accident. Facing the remains of what’s left of her love, her husband, my dad. One look at me and she crumples to the floor in a fit of torturous cries.

  I want to jump out of this godforsaken hospital bed and join her on the floor in her misery, but I can’t, so I weep alone and without the comfort of my mother’s arms around my broken body—my broken soul.

  Her usual poised appearance is now pitiful. Beneath tear-soaked cheeks are the remains of yesterday’s makeup, smeared under her swollen eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this,” she mutters before standing and walking out, leaving me all alone and without a single touch.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry I couldn’t get up here sooner,” Kroy says with a vase full of flowers in his hand. I can’t bear to look at him—it hurts too much—so I turn my head on the pillow and stare out the window as the sun melts into the horizon.

  Maybe this is how it felt for my mother when she looked at me. It seems everything is a reminder that he’s gone. Faces and noises. Nothing is the same anymore.

  I listen to Kroy talk, wishing he wouldn’t say a word. When he asks me questions, I don’t respond. I can’t. Because everything hurts. Talking, moving, sleeping, breathing, existing.

  Eventually, he kisses me and leaves.

  Another day passes, and it seems that every time I wake from a nap, there are more flowers, more cards, and more balloons. It’s as if a child’s birthday party threw up in here.

  A colorful smiley face balloon floating in the corner of the room reads: Get Well Soon!

  What a load of crap. Well wishes and condolences do nothing for morale and mental healing. If I weren’t in so much pain, I’d stab that foily piece of fake cheer so it would stop taunting me about what will never be.

  Because I’ll never be well.

  Because well doesn’t exist in my world anymore.

  “Hey.”

  I don’t need to turn my head to know Linze is here. Her voice is unmistakable.

  “I shouldn’t have waited this long to come see you, I just . . .” Her voice drifts in uncertainty. “I just don’t really do good in situations like this.”

  Yeah, me neither.

  “How are you doing?”

  I’ve got a skull fracture, a sliced-up face, my collarbone is separated, my mom is too devastated to visit me, and oh, to top it all off, my dad died. But other than that, I’m peachy.

  I choose silence over pessimistic replies.

  Truth is, I want to die.

  Alone.

  With no witnesses.

  The morning is filled with wind and rain. Gray clouds hang low in a rippled veil as I stare out of the rain-slicked window. It’s been five days since the accident, and I’m still stuck in the hospital, and although they say today is the day I get to go home, I think I’d rather stay here. I have no interest in braving the world beyond these walls.

  I don’t want to go home.

  I don’t want to walk into that house if he isn’t going to be there.

  My mom is supposed to be picking me up later. I haven’t seen her since she left my room in tears a few days ago. She did call me yes
terday to tell me that they’re holding off the funeral until I’m out of the hospital.

  Great, something to look forward to.

  “Are you ready to get dressed?” the nurse says when she pokes her head in.

  I had to call the nurse’s station for help a while ago because I couldn’t do it myself.

  “I’m sorry. It was too hard with just one hand.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and wonder who will help me get dressed once I’m home. My arm is harnessed in a brace against my chest, a constraint I have to wear for two months while the break between my shoulder and collarbone heals. The doctor has already gone over all the dos and don’ts and what I need to do to get back into swimming. As if I’m supposed to walk out of here and resume life as usual. He then handed me a list of referrals for counseling, but I scoffed it off. I’d rather not prolong this pain by being forced to revisit it in weekly sessions.

  Once I’m dressed in a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, she offers to tie my hair back in a ponytail before helping me lie back down. When she leaves, my head fills with the pattering of rain hitting the window, and I get lost while watching the drops collect on the glass before they skitter down in jagged rivets.

  A light knock draws my attention, and when I turn my head, I see Coach Andrews standing in the doorway. He looks uneasy with his hands shoved into his jean’s pockets and blue eyes electrified in nervousness. Feigning indifference, I roll back to face the window to hide my embarrassment about breaking down in front of him the other day.

  Hurry and say what the rest of them say. Tell me you’re sorry for my loss. Ask me how I’m feeling. Look at me like I’m a pitiful, broken doll. Just do it quickly and go so I can forget you were ever here.

  “How’s your shoulder?”

  Finally, a real question. I still remain silent, just as I’ve done with all the other visitors.

  His footsteps sound as he moves closer to me before legs of a chair scrape over the floor. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s sitting next to my bed.